Fall Away
by Aeryn Phoenix
Summary: Sometimes the worst choices in life lead to the best outcomes, and trust can be found in the least likely of places. Who will be there for her when she falls? Alistair/Fem!Tabris/Zevran
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** I am, in general, an Alistair fangirl. When he dumped my city elf after she made him king, however, I was most put out (even knowing it was coming because I always read spoilers...), mostly due to feeling the breakup dialog options were somewhat lacking in strength considering how completely _pissed off_ I was. I fumed about it for a while, then started this to vent my angst. I may write more than the two parts that exist now, but I'm not going to force it, so it might stand as is. I think Zevran needs more attention from the (mostly) friendship angle instead of the manwhore angle, and I'm happy to give it to him.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Dragon Age: Origins or any characters/plots/places/etc therein. I am the proud owner of Relora Tabris and her incredible pessimism.

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Part One**

"What…what are you saying?"

Alistair's shoulders slumped as if under a great burden, his soft eyes pleading with the woman staring at him in such painful disbelief. He had known this would be hard, but he had not realized what a vast understatement that truly was until he was actually faced with the reality of it. Seeing the dawning understanding in her pale blue eyes, knowing that he was hurting her when he had _sworn_ he never would…it was almost too much. What kind of a cruel bastard could go through with this?

It would be so easy to pull her thin frame against his chest, to whisper apologies and reassurances that he was a fool to even mention such a horrible thing as this. Everything would be fine, they would make it work somehow, he would not give her up. It was an agonizing temptation, the urge to touch her hair, to trace her cheek, to tell the elf, _his_ elf, that she was everything to him and nothing needed to change. Alistair the Grey Warden would have given in and never felt a moment's regret for it.

But Alistair, the King of Ferelden, could not.

"I…I made you king," she forced out, her voice a trembling whisper laced with accusations that grew in anger with every word, "because you said it was what you wanted. And…_this_ is what has come of it?" Tears brimmed in her bright eyes, and guilt stabbed at his heart. He had _never_ seen her cry, not once in the long months since he first met her, and now he would be the one to put her through this? "_This_ is what you wanted?"

Swallowing his emotions, Alistair turned to pace away from her, desperate to look at _anything_ but her eyes, his hand raking through his hair as a frustrated sigh whooshed out of him. "_Want_ has nothing to do with it. I am king, or soon will be, and my duty must come first. Please don't make this harder than it already is."

He turned back around in time to see her eyes flash dangerously as she took a sharp step toward him. For a moment, he wondered if she would strike him. A part of him hoped she would. It might make this easier somehow…and maybe he deserved it. "You wish me to make it _easy_ for you?" she spat, and despite the rising contempt in her tone, the tears finally broke from her dark lashes and trailed down her cheeks from heartbroken eyes. "Should it be simple for a man to destroy one set of promises for the sake of another? Should I bow and beg forgiveness for having the audacity to love a human who swears he loves me?"

Alistair narrowed his eyes and took his own forceful step toward her. "Don't make this about elf or human. That has _nothing_ to do with this, you should know that."

"Don't you lie to me! Not now!" Her hands fisted at her sides, her shoulders trembling with suppressed sobs and fury. He had seen her angry a number of times, sometimes irrationally so, but this was something else entirely. This was despair, and some soft part of him died knowing it was his fault, that he had brought this upon her when she deserved so much _more_. "The mighty King of Ferelden cannot be haunted by an elven _whore_ when there are far better _human_ women out there eager to bear his children!"

Indignant anger swelled in him, and it was all he could do to say nothing until the feeling faded to a dull, throbbing ache in the pit of his stomach. "Lora…please…"

The stinging slap connected with his jaw, hard enough to leave an angry, red handprint across his face, and not surprisingly, it did not make things feel any easier at all. "I gave you _everything_," she whispered brokenly, and he almost refused to look at her. But he knew he owed her that much, so he met her piercing gaze, hoping she would see that this was anything but easy for him, that he was hurting too. "I was _always_ there for you…I _trusted_ you. You made me believe that there are…_good_ men in this world when all I'd ever seen was…but…" her face contorted into something resembling a sneer, "you're just like every other bastard shem I've ever met."

"Lora," he pleaded in exasperation as she shoved past him toward the door. "Relora!" He followed her out into the hallway, jogging to catch up to her quick strides. "We need to talk about this. There is still the Blight to deal with! Stop, please, where are you going?"

When she did not answer, he went against his better judgement and grabbed her arm to stop her. She whirled on him, her face suddenly too close to his, but the expression on her face, the one that would forever after reminded him of an desperate, cornered animal, was almost frightening. "I'm going to see my _family_," she hissed, and Alistair was only vaguely aware of doors opening up and down the halls of the Arl's Estate. "Those who truly love me and don't betray me when promises are no longer a convenience!"

Alistair recoiled from her at that, and as she turned away again, his frustration boiled over. "What did you expect, then?" he shouted at her back. She froze but did not look at him. "That I would become king and…what? Marry you? That we would unite the land and its peoples and overcome all prejudices and end the Blight and live happily ever after? It's a fairy tale, Relora! You aren't this naïve – you know those stories don't come true! Some things are just not possible, no matter how badly we may want them!"

"Alistair!" The man startled and half-turned to see Wynne frowning at him in stark disapproval from the doorway of her room, her arms crossed over her chest. The self-righteous furor he had felt but a moment before faded to guilt and shame under her withering stare. A little farther down, from separate doorways, Oghren and Sten were watching him with different but equally unpleasant expressions, and Leliana had appeared as well, a hand pressed over her open mouth, her eyes wide in disbelief. "I hardly think this is the appropriate place for a king to handle such a…delicate situation," the aged mage admonished.

"A fairy tale?" Alistair's attention was forced back to his lover – former lover – as she echoed his words. She stared at him like she could not possibly fathom him, like he was a stranger or a madman or both, then shook her head. Her eyes turned to steel and she raised her chin defiantly his direction. "I hope you find a beautiful, virtuous human to wed, and I hope she bears you a dozen fine, strong sons, and for all your _blessings_, I hope you die alone and miserable, wallowing in your regrets."

Alistair barely registered Wynne's tired sigh, or her soft urge for them to please calm down. The elf stared at him fiercely for one last moment, her shoulders thrown back in a stance she used when facing her enemies, and then she was gone, ghosting through the shadowy corridor and out the front doors.

He took a step to follow her when someone snapped, "I would not do that, were I you." Zevran brushed past the scowling man to stare after the young woman before turning a passive, neutral expression on Alistair. "She does not wish you to follow."

"And what would you know of her wishes?" the future king growled, though he made no further attempt to follow the woman.

The assassin tilted his head and let the corner of his mouth twitch upward in a smirk. "Given that passionate display we all just witnessed, I would say I know more of her wishes than you do. By far."

Alistair bristled, but Wynne sighed again and stepped between them to force an end to the posturing before it could gain momentum. "Let's not make things worse than they already are," she urged, mostly in Zevran's direction.

"She should not be alone," Leliana commented, her hands twisting together in concern. "Someone should…"

"Allow me," Zevran offered before the thought was finished, his boots already carrying him in the direction of the doors. "I shall ensure that our lovely leader comes to no harm, from others or herself."

"Absolutely not!" Alistair commanded as he strode around the exasperated mage to intercept the elf.

Zevran cocked his head again, then turned to lean against the stone wall, and casually examining his fingernails as he spoke. "What is your concern, my friend? She is no longer yours to protect, yes? And if this is jealousy talking…well, you have forfeit your rights in that regard as well, don't you think?"

The human sputtered in indignation. "That does not mean I will allow you to…to take advantage of her while she is upset!"

"This is what you imagine I intend, then?" The assassin chuckled and pushed himself off the wall, his eyes fixed on Alistair with just a hint of malice in their depths. "She has gone to the Alienage, to see her family. You would not be wise to travel there, and as I am the only other elf here, it would be safe to assume that I am the logical choice to seek her out. Can you argue this?"

When Alistair eyed him skeptically, and no one else seemed inclined to join the debate, Zevran smiled and pressed his case. "I have no motives other than to keep her from doing something stupid. Such as getting drunk, climbing a tree, and plummeting to her untimely death. This is a good cause, no?"

Alistair's scowl darkened, but he looked away and the Antivan nodded, knowing he had made his point. "Well, then," Zevran straightened up and rubbed his hands together for a moment, his eyes roving aimlessly over the gathered companions. "There is but one thing left to do before I set off, I suppose." He was perfectly relaxed as he took one slow step closer to Alistair, then another, a smile flitting across his face as he spread his hands out like a man bearing a peace offering. "It occurs to me that I have done little for the sake of my people, and indeed I have hardly begun to repay my debt to lovely Lora for sparing my life. This seems to be as good a time to begin as any."

The elf was fast, faster than Alistair could follow, and the blow of one solid fist cracked into the human's nose before he even realized what was happening. There were several gasps of surprise somewhere behind him, and he stumbled backward with a bellowed cry, feeling and tasting the blood pooling in his nose and the back of his throat. He stared, disbelieving, through watery eyes at the grimacing elf as Zevran shook off the ache in his throbbing knuckles, but the former Crow's eyes were hard and cold as he regarded Alistair.

"She trusted you. Not just as a woman, or a lover, but as an elf. This is not something idly given, or idly tossed aside. I wonder, will you rule as king in this manner, hmm? As an elf, I pray it is not so, or perhaps I would be better off in Antiva after all."

And in a blink, the assassin disappeared down the corridor after the other elf, gone and out the door before Alistair could even begin to formulate a reply. "I…he…" he stammered around the hand with which he was unsuccessfully trying to staunch his bleeding, "he broke my nose!"

Wynne turned him around and wearily instructed him to tilt his head back and hold still, but Sten grunted and growled, "Good. Then I suppose I won't have to."

Alistair blinked at the glowering Qunari and glanced at Oghren when the dwarf grumbled, "Aye, remind me to buy that girly elf a drink when he gets back." He sharpened his eyes on the human and added, "Woman like that doesn't come along more than once in a sodding lifetime, kid, even if you're lucky enough to find her once. Hope you know what you just gave up."

"You…" Alistair floundered and stared around at the faces, ignoring the healer's insistence that he keep still so she could finish repairing his damaged face, "you all think this is _easy_ for me?!"

Leliana touched his arm briefly, her eyes compassionate, but guarded, and Alistair knew she blamed him as well. "Easy or no, it is done," she murmured soothingly. "Nothing more need be said."

All but Wynne returned to their own rooms, and it was only a few moments before she too stepped away from Alistair. Brow wrinkled in concern, she said nothing but rather only studied him worriedly for a heartbeat before shaking her head sadly. "And here I was, worried that _she_ would hurt _you_," she softly said as she turned away.

Alistair stared as she closed her door behind her, leaving him alone in the silent hallway. Something suffocating wound around his chest, something like sadness but deeper, sharper. Loneliness. Lonely already.

_I hope you die alone and miserable._

The future king's eyes prickled painfully, and he hung his head in despair before forcing himself to trudge back to his room.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part Two**

It was the worst time of day to be an assassin, or perhaps the best time, depending on the situation. If one has found their target, the half-dark of dusk can be the perfect time to strike, when visibility is difficult and evasion becomes child's play so long as the assassin knows the area. But when seeking the target itself, as Zevran was now, it becomes hard not to wish for either full night or full day to make the hunt just a bit easier. Especially when it stretches on and on and the hunter begins to wander in circles like a bloody fool while people whisper and stare.

Ironically, it was not his roving eyes that found Relora – it was his ears. He had roamed the Alienage for more than an hour, even daring to knock on a few doors and ask if anyone had seen his wayward hero. His reception was mixed for the most part, and though he picked up the distinct impression of bitterness mingled with jealousy at the mention of their local Warden's name, there was almost always respect as well. Yet, no one he spoke with claimed to have seen her, and it was with a definite sense of frustration that he wandered back toward the great tree in the center of the Alienage in the growing darkness.

With a sigh he slumped down on the gnarled roots and rested his back against the old, massive tree, his mind churning through the possible places Lora could be hiding. His hand where he had struck Alistair throbbed incessantly, and he examined his digits in the dying light. Bruised but not broken, he decided, and a nasty gash that still oozed blood has opened on the middle knuckle. It was well worth the pain, though, and he smiled darkly to himself as he recalled the sheer shock on the human's face. He had it coming.

It was only then, as he remained still and silent in contemplation, that he heard it. Humming. Faint, melodic, _familiar_…and directly above him.

She was lying facedown on one high, thick branch that spread out nearly right over his head, and she was watching him with obvious amusement, still humming the same tune under her breath. One thick wave of dark hair had fallen over half of her face, and he laughed to himself as he spotted a bottle in one of her hands. "Drunk and climbing trees," he muttered, "I should have been a Seer." Raising his voice so that she would be able to hear him, Zevran called, "Have you been watching me wander around this whole time?"

"Mm-hmm," she hummed in between lines of the song. It was a Dalish melody, he remembered, one that Leliana had taught her. Suddenly, she stopped humming and called down, rather more loudly than necessary, "You do realize that young men relieve themselves on this tree daily, don't you?"

Zevran glanced appraisingly down at his choice of seats, then grinned up at her. "This is Ferelden! Your people and your dogs piss everywhere, do they not? So it is hardly different from anywhere else I might sit."

The woman looked genuinely thoughtful for a moment, nodding absently before breaking into a laugh as she attempted to maneuver the bottle toward her mouth. She grumbled and cursed as her wild hair thwarted her efforts once, twice, then she gave the rebellious locks a vicious tug and nearly tumbled from the branch, sending Zevran straight to his feet. Honestly, though, he had no idea what he would do if she fell. Given the height, trying to catch her would probably break him in half, even as slight as she was. He was fairly certain he would at least make the effort if necessary, but either way it would not end well.

"Why don't you come down from there, my dear friend," he urged in his smoothest tone and flashing his most charming smile. "Your archdemon will not wait for you forever, you know."

"Pfft," she answered, forcing Zevran to step back a few paces to avoid falling spittle, "let Alistair be the hero. Sodding bastard shem."

"Tsk, tsk," the Antivan chided. "You cannot possibly trust that man to do anything properly without our fearless leader to guide the way!" She looked saddened by his words, her eyes falling closed as her shoulders drooped, and Zevran sighed and looked away only to discover that their shouted exchanges were drawing a bit of attention. In the gloom, Alienage residents peeked at them suspiciously from doorways and shuttered windows.

With another sigh, Zevran decided that if he could not talk his dear leader down, he would just have to do this another way. Giving the tree one long, appraising look, the elf backed away several paces, set his feet, then sprinted straight for the enormous trunk. Three steps, three jumps, one of which landed wrong and nearly left him eating dirt though he manage to save himself by some miracle of gravity and momentum, and two well placed grabs later left Zevran perched on the lowest limb. Two lunges and a twist, and he was crouched on Relora's branch, grinning at her as she raised her head unsteadily and tried to focus her drunken, bleary eyes over her back toward him without slipping completely from her roost.

"Marker's ass," she laughed, "you just can't pass up the chance to show off, can you?"

"You expect anything less from me?" he jeered, shifting his weight to a slightly smaller branch, just above and beside hers, and creeping out to sit precariously near her. "Clearly you're so impressed by my prowess that you're practically swooning, my dear."

She snorted out a laugh and held the bottle out for him to take. "I think two bottles of wine are responsible for any possible swooning…swoonage?" She scowled then shrugged and watched him take a quick draught from the bottle. "They served that wine at my wedding, you know."

Zevran choked on the drink, sputtering and doing his best not to drip wine onto his leathers as he gawked at the woman. "You…are _married_?" He chuckled, quickly regaining his composure before taking a second, less messy sip of wine and passing the bottle back to her. "And here I thought I knew everything there was to know of you. Keeping secrets, are we?"

"Not _married_, no," she explained, her head resting on the branch and turned toward him. He had to admit, as much as he did not love seeing her drunk, she was much, much calmer now than when she had stormed from the Estate. He had no desire to ever see that broken, betrayed look on her face again. "I was betrothed, an arranged marriage. It's how things are done here in the Alienages."

"Hmm." Zevran shifted his weight a few times, adjusting his position until he found a way to comfortably recline on his branch and another behind him while still keeping his companion's face in view. And not plummeting to his death. "I cannot imagine _you_ being happy with such an arrangement."

She smiled, a small, introspective twist of her lips, and stared off at nothing as she spoke. "Actually…I was okay with it. Not at first, no. My father and I butted heads over the whole idea for months. But at some point, I accepted it, and you know what? I think I could have been happy with him…being a wife, a mother."

Zevran found himself surprisingly interested, suddenly curious about what she must have been like before the Grey Wardens got their hands on her. It was not difficult to imagine her lean form in a feminine dress instead of leathers, or her dark brown hair smooth and styled to highlight the brightness of her icy blue eyes, but married? Pregnant? _Domesticated_? No, she had far too sharp of a temper for him to picture that, at least not without laughing aloud at the absurdity of his imaginings.

"So. Why didn't it happen?" he heard himself ask.

"Vaughan." She said the name coldly, simply, as though that should answer everything, and Zevran wracked his brain for a connection to the name that only sounded vaguely familiar. "The former Arl's son. Rotten, filthy scum. Some days I wish I could convince the Maker to bring him back to life just so I can kill him again. Like today would have been nice.

"The shem thought the women of the Alienage were his whores. He would rape them, kill them, and dump their bodies in the gutters and no one did a damned thing about it." She smiled grimly, the smile he had grown accustomed to seeing on her, and he wondered if she had smiled like that before all of the tragedy and sadness invaded her life. He doubted it. That led him to wonder what her smile had been like before. "On my wedding day, he learned the error of his ways. But…" she looked so sad that Zevran had to literally clasp his hands together to keep from touching her face, "Nelaros died. Trying to protect me."

"Is there a more worthy cause to give one's life for?" the Antivan offered in complete seriousness, but she frowned.

"I prefer the people I care for to have a pulse, thank you," she muttered, then sighed. "You don't have to do this, you know. I don't need a nanny."

"I must beg to differ, I'm afraid," the former Crow chuckled, ignoring her still stormy expression. "You are very drunk, I think, and most precariously perched ridiculously high above the ground. If you have anything but _my_ fantastic luck, this will surely not end well for you. How are you even planning to get down, if I may ask?"

The woman snorted and suddenly pushed herself upright, and Zevran jerked forward, ready to catch her should she wobble too far. By some miracle, she managed to stabilize herself enough to scoot backward along her branch until her back was pressed against the tree trunk. Lora pulled her knees to her chest and hugged them against her, a look of childlike pouting twisting her pretty face. "I'm not," she insisted.

"Not? Not what? Not planning to get down?" Zevran had to laugh at her impertinent nod. It was strange, seeing her like that. She was, as he saw her, a generally grim, dark person, one who brooded far too often and laughed only when necessary. Even when he had seen her drunk in the past, she had still possessed those qualities. She was, in many ways, his opposite, and the counterbalance they represented was possibly what had made them into such good friends. But right now, there was a strange brittleness to her, something akin to innocence or naivete. It was a disconcerting sight. "Now I'm definitely glad I came. Nanny Zevran to the rescue."

"I…it's just…" she turned her eyes up to him, and in the new dark of true night, he could see how they shone with unshed tears, "I don't know _how_. How does…_anyone_ get down from something like this…?"

Her broken whisper made his chest tighten, and he nodded in slow understanding of the deeper meaning behind the words. For one, very brief moment, he wished he could punch Alistair again, but he shoved the unhelpful thought aside. "As I've been told many times in my life, you will never know if you do not try," he murmured with a teasing but firmly insistent note in his voice.

The elven woman uncurled a little and slipped her hands into her lap, staring at them unseeing as she seemed to ponder the words. "But…what if I'm not strong enough?" she implored of her hands. "What if I…fall?"

Zevran shifted along his branch to crouch only inches from her, then gently caught her chin and tilted her face toward him. "I will not let that happen," he assured him with all the conviction within him. "I am here. I _will_ catch you." He watched the hopelessness in her eyes fade, just a little, and felt her faint nod against his hand.

"Now, come," he urged, reaching for her hand this time. "Let's get you down. And," he grinned and flashed her a wink that was probably lost in the darkness, "I won't even grope you in the process. Crow's honor."

She let slip a watery laugh and swiped at her eyes before accepting his offered hand. "How disappointing."

Getting down the tree took much, _much_ longer than getting up, but though their progress was slow and sometimes nerve-wracking, both Zevran and Relora spent most of the time laughing and hissing at each other to shut up lest they wake the whole Alienage. She would slip, grab him, yank him off balance, nearly send them both headfirst off a branch, and they would end up in a desperate, leafy embrace, holding on to their perch by the skin of their teeth.

"I thought you said no groping," she giggled almost hysterically when his hands ended up pressed against soft flesh encased in leather armor. Her warm, wine-scented breath puffing against his neck was a dangerous distraction.

"Yes, well," he laughed as he balanced them both and tried to reach his foot out for the next lower branch, "entirely accidental, I assure you, my dear."

On the lowest branch, Zevran left the woman behind and scrambled down the thick bark of the trunk, letting out a relieved sigh when his feet touched solid ground again. Not that he minded heights or climbing, but when struggling with a depressed, drunken woman? No, not exactly his idea of a thrilling evening. He had had his fill of being terrified for the night because of her.

"Right then," he called softly up, raising his arms toward her. "Come."

She blinked owlishly at him from the branch, more than twice his full height above his head. "You…want me to _jump_?" she hissed incredulously.

"I told you, I will catch you!" he laughed, arms still offered up toward her. "I am right here, Relora. Fall away."

He saw her hesitate, but heard the sharp, defeated sigh and Zevran braced himself for her imminent plunge, refusing to let himself listen to the tiny, evil voice in his head, whispering that he would drop her. He watched her sit and lean backward off the edge of the branch, and for some reason, he felt strangely _warm_ knowing she trusted him with this. The distance was not nearly as far as it probably appeared to her, and she gave a startled squeak when she plopped hard into his waiting arms.

The assassin adjusted her weight, but did not release her right away. "See?" he grinned at her wide-eyed stare. "Here I am."

The drunken woman's face darted toward his before he realized what she meant to do, and her soft lips brushed his cheek. "Thank you," she whispered with such sharp sincerity that it made Zevran's chest ache just to hear it, to see it shining in the moonlight reflecting in her eyes.

He tucked the feeling away and chuckled, lowering her to stand on her own feet. "You are most welcome, my friend. Let's get you back to the Estate to sleep off this night of fun, yes?"

She scoffed and absently picked bits of bark and leaves from her armor. "Back to the room I no longer share with the bastard prince? I don't think so." She paused and tilted her head thoughtfully, her voice coming out more tired than bitter. "I wonder if he's tossed all my things out into the hallway. I'll have to sleep with the hounds, hmm?"

"If you do not return, he will pace all night, worrying for you," Zevran reminded her, but he had to laugh at her expression. "And this is precisely why you are going to stay away, I take it?"

"Indeed," she muttered darkly. "I'm staying here tonight, at my old home. My father and Soris are staying with the hahren for a few days. Valendrian has…not recovered well from the slaver's treatement." Wearing a sad frown, she started off toward her father's house but stopped when Zevran did not move to follow. Without a word or even a change of expression, she looped her arm around his waist and tugged him along with her, and silently he closed his arm around her shoulders and followed her lead.

The small house was dark and cold, the fire having burned out, but Relora padded confidently across the floor and lit a lamp. She did not look at the assassin as she carried it around the corner and out of sight, and after a pause, he followed. He found her sitting on a bed, studying her hands in her lap again, her face pinched and weary.

It was a rare thing for Zevran to feel at a loss for words, and even rarer for him to not know what to _do_ with himself, but this was certainly the case now. Normally, were this any other person sitting before him, he would immediately set about seducing his downtrodden companion, comforting her in the only way he knew how, just to make her forget that idiot human for a few moments. But…this was Relora...

She gave a little start when he moved suddenly, striding to the bed to slide parallel to the headboard, his back braced against the wall with his boots hanging off the other side. "Here," Zevran invited with a pat on his lap. "I shall be your pillow tonight. Tell Nanny Zevran all about it while he braids your hair and tells you everything will be fine."

Lora gave him the strangest look, then let out a rueful chuckle and stretched out on the bed, the back of her head cradled against his thighs. Expert fingers went to work on freeing the rest of her messy hair that had not fallen free of its binding yet, and he managed to avoid her thoughtful stare fixed on his face by focusing on his fingers instead. She relaxed under his gentle ministrations, and even giggled when he did indeed begin to weave her locks into small braids. Zevran smiled as the lines of worry and pain slowly seeped from her features. Perhaps it all would have been more comfortable without armor, but after months and months of doing far more fighting than resting, the leathers had become something like skin to him. He knew Relora felt the same.

Her eyes fell shut after a time, and she murmured something sleepy and curled onto her side, facing away from him. She slid one hand over his thigh just above his knee and gave a squeeze that immediately inspired a myriad of impure thoughts in the Antivan, but he shoved them away.

His fingers moved from her hair to her shoulder, her arm, down her spine, soothing and relaxing her with his touch. Her breathing deepened and he could not help but smirk when he thought about cleaning her drool from his leathers the next day. He even let himself imagine the look on Alistair's face as Zevran said, "Lovely Lora, did you _really_ have to drool all over my thighs? These stains are simply impossible to clean!"

He bit back a chuckle at the picture his mind painted and rested his head back against the wall, content to let himself doze as he kept vigil over his friend's sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Thank you all so much for the reviews. There was so much wonderful feedback that I've been inspired to continue this after all. I'm thinking two or three more parts after this one, but we'll see where the muse goes.  
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Part Three**

Zevran sighed contentedly and lounged sideways on his bed in the small but lavish guest quarters of Castle Redcliff. His hair, loose and still damp from his bath, tickled his bare shoulders as he bent over his daggers, carefully cleaning away all traces of stubborn darkspawn blood. A single candle provided little light, but it gave the room a warm feeling that relaxed him. Not a completely terrible way to spent what could possibly be his last night alive, he thought to himself with a wry smirk. Though a bit more companionship would have been nice. Still, anything was better than a cold bedroll on the hard ground.

The assassin was trying very hard not to think about what tomorrow might hold, or the next day, or whenever it was they managed to break their way through the darkspawn horde and find the archdemon. He had caught a glimpse of the beast once in the Deeproads, and he did not relish the idea of facing it in battle, and even less the thought of Relora taking on the monstrous creature. Riordan's sudden reappearance in Redcliff, and his cryptic words and strange behavior had done nothing to quell the Antivan's worries. It was tempting to listen outside his door while the Wardens discussed whatever it was that was so important…but some part of him feared what he might overhear, and so he had retired to his room instead. Easier to deny it, easier to pretend…lies were always easier than the truth. That was why he was so very fond of them.

Lost in his meandering thoughts and the comforting, hypnotic rhythm of cleaning his weapons, Zevran almost did not hear the soft sound of movement outside his door. Soft on purpose – someone sneaking around. Instinct and training took him over, and he immediately doused the candle and held his breath to listen more closely. The lock clicked, the door silent on its hinges as it slid open a crack and he tracked the faint movement of a shadow crossing shadows in the doorway. He knew of only one person within the castle who could move as quietly as he could.

"I knew someday you'd find your way to me in the dead of night, lovely Lora," he purred teasingly into the darkness.

The woman sighed, a tense, nervous sound. "You're awake. Good. I'm glad." She shut the door and ghosted across the room as Zevran reached for his tunic and tugged it over his head. Something about the tone of her voice made all of his half-ignored worries race to the forefront of his mind. She sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, her back ramrod straight, only the outline of her profile visible in the dark room. Zevran thought about lighting the candle again, but he made no move to do so. "I just…didn't know where else to go."

"My door is always open to you…" he grinned in spite of his worries, thinking of the lock she had just deftly picked, "so to speak."

She sighed again, her head rolling back so that she was staring up at the ceiling. He could hear her fingers fidgeting in her lap. "I really messed up this time, Zevran," she breathed out. She dropped her face to stare down at her hands. "I'm so, _so_ stupid."

The assassin slid to the edge of the bed to put his weapons aside, his movements slow and deliberate, giving her time to gather her thoughts. "What tragic misdeed could you have done to warrant such self-flagellation, I wonder? Did you…" his voice was scandalized, "steal the Arl's cutlery? I doubt there will be anywhere to sell it by the time we reach Denerim, my dear."

She did not react – not a laugh, not a snort, not a scowl – and Zevran fought back the urge to shake her until she stopped staring brokenly at her lap and just told him what was going on. Thankfully, she did not keep him in suspense long enough to drive him to that point. "It's Alistair…I-I sent Alistair to Morrigan's room." She looked up at the staring elf, and her breath caught in her throat for a moment in a stifled sob though her eyes were dry. "I guilted him into her bed, Zevran."

His arm went around her shoulders, tucking the trembling woman securely under his chin as he tried to make sense of these obviously impossible, insane statements tumbling out of her. "My dear, please start from the beginning. I'm afraid you've lost me already."

And she told him everything. From the Joining to the nightmares to the true meaning of the sacrifice Wardens must pay to stop a Blight, and her angry declaration to Alistair and Riordan that she would make the killing blow because she had "nothing to live for anyway." Zevran hated hearing her say that, even if she had only said it to hurt Alistair as she claimed.

At some point during her trembling, scattered recount, Zevran sank back to lay on the bed and stare unseeing up at the dark ceiling. His mind whirled with the new information. She curled herself around his side, her head on his chest as she idly rolled one of the laces of his tunic between her fingers. The assassin held her, one hand trailing over her braided hair – the braids he had put there days before and that she stubbornly refused to remove. He had meant to comfort her, but it some way, it felt as though she were comforting him.

After a short pause, she slowly began to tell him of Morrigan, and her ritual. "You believed her?" he asked abruptly. "That she can truly save your life?" It seemed too simple somehow, though the whole "child with the spirit of an Old God" sounded ominous enough.

"I have no reason not to," the other elf replied with a shrug. "I can't imagine she would ask me to convince Alistair to sleep with her for any other reason."

Her voice faltered and trailed off at the end, every muscle in her body seeming to clench and lock for a long moment. Zevran, careful to keep his voice free of any kind of condemnation, pressed, "And you did manage to convince him."

"In the worst possible way," she whispered, her fingers fisting the front of his tunic. "I told him…" she broke off with a groan and buried her face in Zevran's chest. Voice muffled, she ground out, "I said the worst things anyone could ever say to someone. And _then_ I realized that Morrigan's room is adjoined to mine and I just…I couldn't…"

She shuddered but still did not cry, and Zevran rolled to his side and pulled her tight against him with all of the intimacy and passion of a lover, but she was _not_ his lover and he would not breach that boundary. He sighed into her hair as she clung to him, but all he could think was how grateful he was that Alistair had given in to her argument, no matter how bad it was. If this kept his Grey Warden alive, and if Morrigan was not simply lying and manipulating them all, then he did not care one whit what sacrifice was needed. If sex with a beautiful woman could indeed be considered a "sacrifice" at all...

Lora snuggled in closer to him as her white-knuckled grip on him slowly relaxed into an embrace. "You smell nice."

Zevran let out a small, disbelieving chuckle low in his chest at her sudden mumbled statement. "My dear, it speaks volumes to our chosen lifestyle that smelling good is such a rarity." He realized that the woman in his arms was not wearing armor. "You bathed as well?"

She murmured a quiet assent as one of her hands drifted lightly down his spine. "You know," he could feel the heat of her lips as she spoke, moving softly against a bare portion of his chest, "this is the second time I've given you the chance to seduce me in the last few days." Zevran did his best to remain perfectly still, but his heart gave a lurch in his chest, and he knew she must be able to feel its pounding. After a pause, she pulled back to look up at him, her face nothing but a mask of shadows in the dark room. "You wouldn't even have to try very hard."

She was _inviting_ him to bed her. He stared down at her, incredibly grateful that he had not lit the candle because he did not want her to see the war of emotions surely going on behind his eyes. "Lovely Lora…under any other circumstances…" he breathed, his normally calm confidence wavering. He gently brushed a braid back from her forehead. "I…do not want…" _what?_

_Do not want to make love to a woman I've stared at and dreamed of and am probably half in love with already? Do not want to kiss those warm lips that are so soft and close and willing? Do not want to explore those curves and memorize her scars and trace patterns on her skin with my fingers until she gasps my name? Do not want to wake up tomorrow drenched in the scent of her?_

Lies, all of it, and normally that would not be a problem. He could not bring himself to say the lies that he loved so much. The truth would hurt him, and probably her, and if she knew it…he had no idea what she would do with it. Damn it all, _he_ had no idea what he should do with it! But she trusted him, trusted him with everything, not the least of which being her _life_. He did not need to be able to see her face in the darkness right then because he could _feel_ the trust emanating from her, from the very way she touched and held him.

When he did not continue his thought, Relora softly touched his cheek with her fingertips, bringing him back to the moment. Zevran closed his eyes and breathed out a sigh before he managed to summon the courage to speak again. "I do not want to be a regret. I do not want to be _your _regret. I…"

He thought he should say more than that, though he was not sure what was going to come out of his mouth next and that was probably not a good sign, but he felt Relora stiffen at his words. Zevran waited breathlessly for her to speak, to push him away, to call him a coward or a fool or any number of cruel things that his imagination taunted him with. He tried very hard not to believe that she would understand, but Maker above he surely hoped she would.

She sighed suddenly and pressed her face into his chest again, her fingernails digging into his back through his tunic. "I'm sorry," she whispered angrily against his skin. "That was…unfair." Her next sigh sounded more like a growl of frustration. "Why couldn't I have met you sooner? Before…" She bit off her words with a groan. "_Why_ can't I stop my mouth from saying these stupid, stupid things?"

Zevran had to laugh at her frustration, despite the sharp pang of sadness he suffered as she spoke words he had often thought before. "Don't worry, my Grey Warden. I echo the sentiment…even knowing such things cannot be undone."

There was silence for several minutes, and Zevran was privately relieved that the woman relaxed in his arms, the tension seeping from her body. He absently played his fingers through her hair and did his best not to think about how wonderful her warm thighs felt against his. He may have turned her down, but that certainly did not make the choice an easy one.

"Distract me," she yawned sleepily into his tunic after a time. "Tell me a story."

"Ah, you are in need of your nanny again, are you?" he chuckled, then pressed a chaste kiss against her forehead. "I am happy to indulge you, my dear."

He spun a yarn about his antics as a young Crow, embellishing the details liberally just to hear her laugh. He was not sure when she dropped off to sleep, but he stayed awake long after her deep breathing became the only sound in the room.

It struck him that this could possibly be their last night alive. Ritual or no, the archdemon could swallow either one of them in a single bite and it would all be over. He could right then be passing up his one and only chance to make love to the woman in his arms. She would sleep the hours away, and he would eventually drift off to the Fade as well, and this moment could easily never come again. What would it matter if she _might_ resent him in the future for taking advantage of her if the future never came?

But, to his complete surprise, he found that he did not regret his decision at all. Of all the _wrong_ he had done in his life, this was the one thing he was certain was _right_.

Smiling to himself, the assassin pressed his face into her hair and slowly drifted off to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Part Four**

She chose the dog. She chose the _bloody_ _dog_ instead of him.

Zevran tried very hard not to take the choice personally, but really, how could he not? To be passed over in favor of a creature who joyously rolls in horse feces and licks himself clean would be demeaning for anyone. But even though he could not feel pleased with her choice, he did honor it and stayed silent as she made her final preparations to face her archdemon backed only by Alistair, Morrigan…and the stinking hound.

He wandered away from the group of companions as they said their farewells, some of their sentiments heartfelt, some awkward, some a little of both. Such partings were not his forte, so to speak, but discomfort was not his real motivation to separate himself from the rest of them. He found himself half-leaning, half-sitting on a pile of rubble, watching their army stream into the besieged city and trying his best not to stare holes in the back of Relora's armor as he turned a small object over and over in his hand.

It felt like forever before she finally looked for him. After hugging Wynne one last time, the young woman frowned worriedly and swept her gaze over the battlefield. Somehow, she seemed to both tense up and relax when she spotted him.

"Are you…hiding…" she ventured uncertainly as she approached him, "or…sulking?"

Zevran forced a smile, knowing that his sadness could not be hidden from her but making the attempt all the same. "Neither," he answered lightly. "And both. You're leaving me behind."

"It's just easier this way," she explained. He was equal parts torn between irritation and admiration at the firm, businesslike quality in her voice, though those blue eyes of hers held an apology. It seemed that the Relora he had known before Alistair made a mess of her had found herself again, at least for the time being, and he was proud of her strength. "I'll have enough distractions to manage as it is." She accentuated this statement with a wary look toward Morrigan and a shorter glance at Alistair.

"Well, we both know how very distracting I can be. So I can hardly blame you for such precautions."

She offered him a wry smile and shook her head. "Zevran…" she took a step closer and he felt her gloved fingers close around his wrist, "I just…in case something…look, I just have to thank you, for everything. You've been…"

As she stammered, the assassin glanced at the group not far from them. When he was certain none of them were looking their direction, he twined his fingers with hers and pulled her around the edge of the rubble and out of their sight. For a moment, he simply looked at her, hating the worry lines that creased her forehead and wishing he could kiss away the sorrow in her lovely eyes. But there was no time for such thoughts.

"Here." He lifted her hand that he held, turned it palm up and carefully pressed a small, shiny object into her grasp. "I want you to have this."

She stepped even closer to him, her head nearly touching his chest, as she bent over their hands to study the golden earring. "It's…beautiful," she murmured, then turned her sincere gaze up to him. "Thank you."

"It came into my possession during my very first job for the Crows," he explained simply, deciding this was not the time for the long-winded version of the story. "It has always brought me luck, and…well, I think you will be needing all the luck you can gather, no?"

She chuckled grimly and bobbed her head. "Definitely."

"And…" he smiled warmly, squeezing her fingers lightly, careful not to disturb the earring on her palm, "it is beautiful, as you are. So it is a perfect fit."

Relora glanced away and her jaw tightened. Zevran realized that she was already struggling to keep her "leader" mask in place, and he was not helping matters, but he could not bring himself to really regret his words. "Here," she forced out through a pinched throat as she pressed the earring back into his hand. "Put it in."

She brushed the braids and loose hair back from her left ear, but Zevran was already protesting. "Perhaps you have forgotten that your ears are not pierced, my dear."

"Then you'll have to remedy that, won't you?" she said with a smirk. When he hesitated, she gave a short laugh. "Don't tell me the almighty assassin balks at something so slight. I've been through worse, Zevran. Please, I want to wear it."

Nodding, the Antivan gently took her earlobe between his fingers. After a moment of though, he slid his grip higher up her ear to the harder, more easily pierced ridge midway up the outer edge of the graceful curve. The woman let out a hiss of pain, but did not flinch as he pressed the earring through as quickly and cleanly as he could.

She shook off the discomfort and smiled at him when he drew back. "How does it look?"

_Stunning. Perfect. Right._

"Beautiful," he breathed, and his eyes were no longer on the earring but staring rather fixedly at her face.

She let her hair fall back into place, but he could still see the gleam of gold between the dark strands. "Thank you, Zevran," she murmured, her fingers gently tracing the tattoos on the edge of his face. "So much…"

He pulled her against him roughly, his arms circling her as he buried his face in her hair and breathed in the scent of her. _It could be the last time…_

"Come back in one piece, my Grey Warden," he whispered hotly against her ear, and he suddenly hated the layers of armor separating their bodies because he would have killed to truly hold her right then.

She clung to him fiercely for a moment, then drew back, blinking tears from her eyes. She started to step away, then surprised him by rising up on her toes and brushing her lips across his. It was quick, fleeting, like a brush of warm air, and then she was gone, leaving him cold and alone. He closed his eyes and held the memory close, imprinting it in his mind.

He emerged from behind the rubble to watch her walk away. Her shoulders were back, her jaw set firmly, her body language screaming defiance and determination and strength.

"Come back to me," he whispered under his breath.

It took the assassin a moment to realize Alistair was staring at him, and Zevran returned the future king's distrustful glare with a wide smile and a mocking bow. Holding on to the memory of Relora's faint kiss, Zevran strode purposefully toward the gates of Denerim, eager to seek out darkspawn that would pose a welcome distraction.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Yay, back to the angst! It was all getting way too sweet and fluffy for my tastes. I hesitate to write from Relora's PoV because she's (like me) a massive overreactionary. Ah, well. Thank you all for the delightful reviews. :)  
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Part Five**

She was a fool. It was not an insult or an opinion – it was fact. She was a complete and utter fool.

With as much poise as she could muster, Relora strode through the bustling feast hall of the Royal Palace, her eyes fixed dead ahead of her, a square of paper crumpled in her fist. She must have looked calm and rational because no one stopped her as she brushed past smiling noblemen and former companions. She managed to slip away from the celebration unnoticed, and the moment she was out of sight of the last guard posted in the hallway, she kicked off her heeled shoes and bolted barefoot for the stairs.

The stones were freezing beneath her feet, but she did not care. She wished she could be as cold and unmoving as those stones. She tripped on her skirts midway up the stairs and tumbled to a bruising halt on her knees before shoving herself to her feet again with a curse bitten off through clenched teeth. Her eyes burned, but she _would not cry_, not for _him_, not _ever_ again. She continued to lie to herself as the tears coursed down her cheeks and she stumbled blindly into her room.

A concerned whine greeted her as she slammed the door shut and braced her back against it, but it took her a moment to orient on the Mabari standing in front of her. This could not be happening. It felt like a bad dream. She should have seen it coming – _what a fool!_

"Oh, Colt," she sighed raggedly as she sank to her knees and wrapped her arms around the worried hound's neck. He licked at her salty tears and whined plaintively, begging his elf to tell him what had made her so miserable. "We…we have to leave."

The dog pulled back and cocked his head at her in a silent question.

"I know, I know," she groaned and plopped back hard on her bottom to lean against the door. She dug her fingers into her eyes, trying to stem the flood of tears and purge the images she could still see replaying behind her closed lids. Since the archdemon's death several days before, she had not dreamed of darkspawn anymore, but now she felt trapped in an entirely worse nightmare. The nightmare of reality. "It's only been a few days, and already…he's making us go."

The Mabari crawled over her skirts to burrow into her lap, and she hugged him gratefully even as her mind refused to let her forget what had just happened. She opened her hand to stare at the crumpled note. She wanted to burn it, though that would not change a thing. That such a beautiful, wonderful evening could be ruined by something summed up in a few scribbled sentences…

_The celebration banquet was gorgeous. She was not the kind of woman to usually enjoy such a fuss, but Leliana's exuberance was contagious, and it felt like a dream to see all of their friends relaxed and happy for once. Lora had not even minded when the Orlesian bard insisted on spending hours – and a ridiculous amount of coin – turning them both into "smiling seductresses, no?" The look on Zevran's face as he greeted them both was well worth the uncomfortable shoes and sharp combs in her hair._

She immediately reached up and started yanking the nasty things from her hair. "It's not like it matters now," she spat, then hurled one of the combs across the room where it skittered across the floor and into a dark corner. It was wrong, but she found she resented Leliana for convincing her to forget for a few moments exactly who she was, _what _she was. "Fool, fool, _fool_…"

_They danced. They laughed. They ate and drank way too much. She smiled, really, truly smiled instead of putting on a false face so that other people would not have to worry. Never in her life had she felt carefree, not even as a very young child, but she supposed that was how she felt right now. Zevran was a charming and delightful distraction from any of the less-perfect parts of the evening. She was not even thinking about Alistair and the tumultuous end of their too-good-to-be-true relationship…not until Anora pulled her aside, that is._

"_Perhaps this is not the proper time to speak of such things," the Queen said with a fake smile that made Relora shift uncomfortably, "but there is little point in delaying the inevitable. While you are welcome to spend as much time as you need," the blonde human put special emphasis on the word, "recovering here in Denerim, I am wondering how long you intend to tarry."_

"_I…haven't really thought about it," she answered honestly, wary of the woman's intentions._

_"__If I may be so bold, I believe it would be in everyone's best interest if you moved on as soon as you are able."_

_Relora blinked in astonishment, momentarily taken aback, then the hard mask she had made for herself over the last year slid firmly into place. "This is my home, I was born here," she told the woman with a cold stare. "My family is here. And, not to put too fine a point on it, I just saved this city. That includes you. Your Highness."_

_"__This I know well," the woman answered with false solemnity. Relora wanted to stab her. "You will forever have our gratitude, Grey Warden, but there are far more reasons for you to go than for you to stay."_

_The elf ground her jaw for a moment before she found the calm to reply. "If this is about your betrothed," the word strangled her, and she could not help but glance up to where Alistair stood talking to some Arl or another near the throne, "I assure you, he is all yours."_

_Anora gave another thin smile and shook her head softly. "Ah, I knew you would think this a game of my own making if I approached you, but Alistair was quite stubborn about not doing it himself. There are some things more terrifying to men than an archdemon, it seems, you being one of them." Still holding that detestable smile, the Queen held out a folded piece of paper to the scowling elf. "He makes a far better case than I expected him to."_

"He couldn't even face me himself," she growled as the dog gazed at her sadly and gently licked her fingers. "He had to write me a _note_, and then have his future _bride_ pass it along to me!"

The hound whined curiously, and the elf groaned and covered her face with her hands as fresh tears sprang to her eyes.

"No," she managed a broken whisper. "Don't ask me what it says. It…I just…" She suddenly ripped the note in half and tossed the pieces aside. "He wants me gone because it will be easier for him. Whatever excuses he blathers on about in that letter - the Orlesian Grey Wardens and unanswerable questions and _distractions _- the truth is he just doesn't want me here."

Colt growled low in his chest, but she shook her head.

"It does matter. Alistair is the King, and Anora is his Queen. If they don't want me around, they can make things very hard on me…hard on my family, even." Her head fell back against the door with a soft thump. "Just like before…shemlen bastards. I can't take that risk. I have to go. Maybe it _is _better this way."

The dog gave a pensive whine and tried to wiggle more of his massive body into her lap, forcing a tearful laugh out of the elf.

"Of course," she whispered into the short ruff of fur around his neck. "You know I'd never leave you behind, Colt. You're a part of me now."

The Mabari yipped happily, his little stub of a tale wagging fiercely, then he pushed his wide muzzle against the side of her face. He was sniffing at the earring – Zevran's earring.

"I…no." The woman hung her head and stared at nothing for a long moment. "I cannot be this woman anymore. I can't be okay leading people around, making decisions that could destroy them or me or all of us just because they feel…_obligated_. They deserve more than that…he deserves more than I can give him."

After a few more moments of sullen silence, the woman found her way numbly to her feet. It did not take her long to strip away the garish gown, slip into her leathers and gather her belongings, all under the watchful gaze of her loyal hound.

All she left behind was a torn note written in Alistair's sprawling handwriting, its message smudged and blurred by tears, and an old, dry rose, the beauty of its brittle petals long faded.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** I might have pushed the T rating a bit here, but I'm probably just paranoid after writing so many smutty stories. Heh. One more part will wrap up this story. You all are awesome - thank you for the reviews!  
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Part Six**

Zevran leaned forward on his balcony railing overlooking the twinkling lights of the city of Denerim. The night air was sharp and cold against his bare chest, but he ignored the discomfort, grateful for a moment of solitude and peace. He ran his fingers across his ribs, tracing the bruises surrounding the nearly healed puncture wound on his right side. He should have been grateful that he survived the assassination attempt. But he was not.

_Here I am again_, he thought bitterly, _wishing for death because of a woman. I am such a fool._

It always ended this way for him, or had he not realized that by now? As soon as he stopped living for the moment and started to _care _about someone, his world would shatter to a million pieces. His first lesson had not been enough apparently – he just had to go and get himself in even deeper than before, and with a woman whose heart belonged to another man at that.

_Fool._

They said she left nothing behind, and his own search of her room turned up nothing but a broken hair comb. Without so much as a good-bye, she and the hound vanished into the night. Zevran had tried to track her the moment he found out, but all he could learn for certain was that she had left by sea. A nameless ship with no description and a captain under a false name had left the harbor in the middle of the night, and no matter who he questioned or bribed or threatened, no one would tell him a thing. She was always good at hiding, and she obviously went above and beyond her normal precautions to make certain she would not be found. It hurt to realize that she did not _want _him to find her, but he could not convince himself that she was gone for good. Perhaps she needed time away to clear her head - that he could understand well enough.

For the first month, he waited. He was bored and privately sad as he watched their former companions slowly disperse and leave on their own pursuits. A few of them asked him to come with them, but he always declined. Anora approached him after a time and offered him a job doing what he did best. His first instinct was to refuse, but he decided in the end that it was a good excuse to hang around. To wait for her. Because she _was _coming back.

For the second month, he settled into the palace and fell into a routine. It was not the most elaborate or stimulating work, but that was clearly because he was not truly trusted by the new King and Queen. Still, it was better than being bored.

The third, forth and fifth month slowly sucked away his hope. He became resigned to his situation and the fact that Relora was _not _coming back. But he still did not leave. Where would he go? He had no home.

He would wander into her room occasionally – now an unoccupied guestroom once again – imagining he could smell the perfume she was wearing that last night. She had looked like an elven goddess, all silks and flowing hair and his earring shining in the delicate shell of her ear. He wondered constantly if she still wore it. He did not even know if she was still alive.

During the sixth month, the Crows came for him again. Once more they underestimated him and his current connections, and he was well aware of their plot far in advance. Zevran was not even in the palace when the assassins were taken care of. He knew he should return to Antiva to settle this debt once and for all, but he still did not leave. He could not bring himself to go.

It was not until the eighth month passed that he discovered that the planned attack on his life had been nothing more than a diversion from the true assassin. One of his own informants drove the poisoned dagger deep into his ribcage, and if not for an alert palace guard and the presence of Wynne visiting the royal couple, Zevran would have died within moments.

A dog barked raucously below his balcony, bringing him back to the present. He sighed and pushed himself off the railing to wander back into his room. _Would death really have been so bad? It would have put an end to the waiting, that much is true._

He spent far too many hours remembering. The gentle kiss she had given him, the feel of her sleeping in his arms, the memory of being _trusted _– and his deep, angry regret at not ravishing her when he had the chance. Maybe it had been the right thing to do, but it was also _stupid_, he told himself countless times. Then again, if the tiniest brush of her lips against his had driven him half-insane, what would the memory of her writhing beneath him, panting his name have done to him by now? Though, truthfully, madness seemed like a welcome retreat at this point.

Many candles flickered in his lavish quarters, making shadows dance across the walls as he shut the balcony doors and crossed the room. He knew every crack, every crevice, every stray speck of dust in his chambers after months of familiarity, and he noticed the inconsistent movement immediately. And, of course, recent near-death experiences made him doubly paranoid and probably sharpened his perceptions.

Calmly, he strode to his bed, then all in one fast, smooth movement, he swept up one of his daggers and lunged for the shadowy corner where the assassin waited. He pinned the person's chest against the wall with one arm and pressed his keen blade hard against the exposed throat. "Two assassins, only days apart?" he hissed mockingly at the shadowy face with a cold, cruel smile. "The Crows must be getting truly desperate to finish me off."

The woman – for it became obvious to him that it was indeed a female he held pinned – did not struggle against his grip, but simply tilted her head to one side so that the candlelight spread across her features. Eyes the color of blue ice sparkled at him.

"This is…really not how I imaged this reunion at all," Relora whispered, and the corner of her mouth twitched despite the cold blade pressed to her exposed throat.

Zevran felt the world slow down, his next few breaths feeling long and drawn out as he stared in disbelief at the _ghost_ he surely held in his grip. She looked different, her hair lighter in streaks as if she had spent much time in the sun, her skin darker and somehow rougher. She smelled different as well – like the sea and rum and something else he could not identify right away, though it was familiar.

It was these differences, these discrepancies in his memories of her, that convinced him that this was _not_ a dream, this woman was real, she was really here, in front of him, in his room…

"How did you imagine it, then, I wonder?" he whispered back, wishing he could summon the same level of indifferent humor he usually clung to, but his voice was unsteady. He did not press the blade harder, but he did not ease up his grip either. If he had been honest with himself, he would have realized he had _no idea_ what to do at that moment.

"Hmm…I thought I would wait until you fell asleep," she started thoughtfully as if there were nothing at all abnormal about being in this particular situation. "Then I would slip into your bed and do unspeakable things to you while you imagined me nothing but a dream. But I would be there when you woke."

"It is as I thought," he nodded solemnly despite the thundering of his heart in his chest and the fierce desire that washed over him as he watched her lips move. "You are not the woman I have been waiting for all these months. You see, Relora was madly in love with another man, and she would never say such things to me."

She smiled sadly, and did two things that shook him in a way he had never thought possible after so many months of building up a wall of bitterness around his heart. Ignoring the pressure on her chest and neck, she reached up and tucked her hair back from her pointed ear, revealing the sparkling curve of his earring. As he stared, she gently ran her fingers down the edge of his eye, tracing his tattoos, just as she had done many times in the past. "That woman was a fool," she murmured, and her eyes reflected all the pain and regret and passion he felt in himself. "I prefer this one."

His dagger clattered loudly on the stone floor as he grabbed her by her shoulders and dragged her against him. This kiss was no tender, loving thing - lips and teeth and tongues clashed in a fierce battle, his skin on _fire _every place their bodies touched. He wanted, _needed_ to feel that she was real, that she would not vanish beneath his touch, that she _must _understand that if she ever left him again he would _find her_. He should have tried harder. She was _his _from this moment on and she could not simply leave him behind ever again.

It was not until he felt her hands slide up into his hair, her fingernails digging into his scalp, that he realized she was as desperate and seeking as he was. She trembled and gasped and replied his every movement with equal fervor and longing. He wanted to shake her and demand to know why she had put them both through such a painful separation when they could have been doing _this_ instead. Her leg slid up and wrapped around his thigh, grinding his hips into hers, and he decided there would be plenty of time for explanations later because there were much more important things to be doing besides talking.

Breathing raggedly, he pulled her toward his bed, breaking the bruising kiss only long enough to growl out a few threatening words. "I am going to make love to you _right now_." Obviously she missed the threat completely because she smiled and let out a soft whimpering sigh as he nipped at the sensitive juncture of her neck and shoulder. "And I don't care if you resent me for it tomorrow."

She let out a throaty laugh and willingly tumbled into his bed, stretching her body out languidly for him to admire. "Zevran…" she sat up and cradled his face in both of her hands, her shining eyes captivating him, "if you _don't_ make love to me right now, I will resent you for it for the rest of your life."

"So long as we are in agreement," he whispered against her mouth before he lost himself to her completely.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Bah, I decided to break this chapter in half because it was getting really long. So, one more part after this to answer all the questions and wrap it all up..._if _my out of control muse doesn't continue to exploit this plot bunny. Your reviews are much appreciated. ^_^

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**Part Seven**

Zevran woke up sore, sated, sticky and smelling of sea salt. For a long moment, he thought he had dreamed the wild night's antics, and that this was still part of that same insane, drunken dream. Except that he had not had much to drink the night before, and usually these kinds of dreams did not contain such vivid amounts of discomfort. His neck screamed in protest when he tried to move, and this likely had something to do with the fact that his head was dangling upside down off the side of the bed.

It took several tries for him to force his body upright, no thanks to his legs being completely numb and unresponsive. Blonde hair dangled raggedly in front of his face and the recent injury on his side ached in protest from the hours of passionate exploits the night before. His head swam before he was able to focus his eyes on the sight in front of him, and despite the haze swirling around his mind, he smiled and chuckled under his breath.

Relora was sprawled across the other side of the bed, snoring softly, her hair wild and tousled into knots that would surely take hours to work free. A sheet was twisted around her middle and covering absolutely none of her more delectable parts, and her sleeping position looked no more desirable than his own had been. Somehow their legs were tangled together in an impossible position…although, Zevran remembered with a wicked smile, last night had proved that there was nothing _impossible _about it at all.

Luckily, the woman was in a dead sleep, and she did nothing more than mutter irritably and roll over as Zevran unwrapped himself from her and the sheets. When he trusted his complaining legs to hold his weight, he crept to the door, sheet wrapped securely around his waist, and leaned into the hallway.

A low, soft whistle brought a young elven boy padding toward him on quiet feet. "Oi, it looks like a storm hit ya, Zev!" the grinning child laughed as he stared at the assassin's hair.

The Antivan motioned for him to speak softly and whispered, "A storm _has_ hit, so to speak. Be a good lad and see about having them send up a bath for me, yes?"

"Aye, 'course." The boy was frowning at Zevran's bare shoulder, and the assassin glanced down to see a row of vicious, bloody scratches carved into his flesh. "Yer…okay, right Zev?"

"Oh, yes," the former Crow purred with a waggle of his brows. "Very, _very_ okay. Make sure they send me a _really big_ tub."

The boy looked startled, then made a face like he was going to be sick, complete with both hands clutching his stomach. "Oh, _ew_! Ya got a _girl_ in there, huh? Yuck!"

As the elfling scampered off, presumably to carry out Zevran's request, the assassin chuckled after him. "Ah, someday you will not mind at all, my young friend."

Still smiling, the Antivan retreated back into his room and turned to survey the disorder of his usually well-organized room. Clothes and bedding and bits of armor and weapons were scattered across the floor, and it did indeed look like a storm had entered his room and had its way with his belongings. He stood at the foot of his bed, leaning on the bedpost as he studied the glorious, sleek lines of Relora's face and body, and slowly the smile slipped from his lips.

Where had she been? Why had she left? Why had she returned?

He wanted to tell himself that none of that mattered – _live for the moment, remember? She is here now, enjoy her while you have her and forget everything else._ But the words rang hollow for him, and he could not help but feel a little…_resentful_ that she could simply reappear and breeze into his bed as if nothing had happened. And that sounded so stupid considering it was what he had been waiting for these last nine months.

She smelled like a pirate, he realized in an odd moment of distraction, and that brought his smile back. She would make a very good pirate, barking orders and harassing human merchant vessels, and it comforted him just a little to know he had at least been right about her leaving by ship. The smell of sea salt and rum and…

His heart thumped hard in his chest, his smile vanishing. He _knew_ that last smell now, the one that was oh, so familiar and personal to him. It was leather. Antivan leather.

He knelt beside her discarded armor and just stared at it for a long moment. It was Antivan make and cut, and fairly worn as well…not brand new, not something she had picked up on a random whim but rather something she had been wearing for some months. She had been to Antiva, he was certain of it. He felt sick to his stomach with something like fear or betrayal? He could not be sure. He could no longer be sure of _anything_. She was very good at making him feel that way, he realized.

Before he could let himself think about it anymore, he stood and leaned over her sleeping form to snatch up her left arm – and there it was. A tiny tattoo that curved into the underside of her elbow. The mark of an assassin in the service of the Antivan Crows.

"It's not what you think, Zevran." Her voice was thick with sleep as she studied him under heavy eyelids. He held her arm for a moment longer, staring into her unreadable expression, willing, _begging_ her to make him understand what was going on, then he dropped her arm and ran his fingers through his tangled hair.

"Which part, my Grey Warden?" he demanded, though he forced his tone to be light despite the way he paced across the room like a skulking wolf. "Because I am thinking so very many things right now that I cannot seem to keep them all straight." He stopped abruptly as the irony of the situation smacked him straight in the face, then laughed aloud. "You know, the Maker has one wily sense of humor. I let a Crow right into my bed only days after one nearly killed me!"

She sat up with nearly as much grace as he had moments before, her blue eyes looking askance of him. "I know, Zevran. About the assassins after you. That's why I came back. Well…_part_ of why I came back." She bit her lip and stared sadly at the bruising across his ribs. "But I was too late to stop it, and I was just…so glad you survived…"

"You came all this way to stop the plot against me?" he said with a dubious lift of his brows. "Your new employers do not appreciate such rebellions, lovely Lora."

"I'm not really a…" she sighed irritably and leveled a stern frown at him. "Can you please just let me explain? From the beginning?"

Looking so defiant with her hair sticking out all directions and the sheet not covering anything important on her body, Zevran could not stifle the jolt of desire in him despite the situation. "Or," he grinned suggestively, "we can just make love again before you kill me, yes?"

She sighed in exasperation, but could not hide the spark of amusement in her eyes. "Very tempting," she murmured as she pushed to her feet and stretched, her back arched in a delightful display that was so obviously for his benefit.

He could not stop himself from stepping closer to her and admiring the view, despite the enormous warning flashing in the back of his mind. "Which part? The love making, or the killing?"

"Both," she snorted as she finally snatched up a tunic – his tunic – and pulled it over her head. "There will be time for at least one of those later, though."

"Ohhh, going to keep me in suspense, are you?" His lecherous smile did not reach his eyes as he sprawled lazily back onto the bed and watched as it was her turn to pace. "Still a tease, I see."

She looked pained as she picked up on the cold undertone of his voice, but her eyes held no sign of apology. "That night, at the banquet…Anora and Alistair asked me to leave Denerim." Zevran sat up sharply, her words sparking fury in him as both the King and Queen had denied having any idea why the elven heroine would leave so suddenly. "They made a good case, too, really. And I probably overreacted a little. You know me…"

"So you just left." The blonde elf tried to control the sadness and bitterness he felt, but her face fell and he knew she could see right through him. "You left without me, and you ran to the Crows. With the dog."

"No! No, that's not it at all." She sighed and sank down into a chair on the opposite side of the room. "I was planning to stow aboard a ship, any ship, the first ship to leave the harbor really, but I stumbled across someone at the docks. Isabela."

Zevran blinked. "Isabela? _My_ Isabela?"

"Well I certainly hope she's not _your_ Isabela," she replied archly, though she seemed to understand what he meant to imply well enough, "but, yes – the captain you introduced us to."

The assassin was already nodding as pieces of the puzzle started to fit together. "The unidentified ship and the captain with a fake name…yes, this makes sense. And explains why I could not get anyone to talk either."

"You…tried to find me?"

Relora's voice sounded small and uncertain, and for a moment Zevran thought she was mocking him. "Of course I did," he snapped, once more letting himself flop onto the bed. "How could you think that I would not?"

"I…I just…" she groaned out a sigh and massaged her temples. "Please try to understand – I was _lost_, Zevran. So very, very lost, and alone, and I had no idea…"

"You did not have to be alone." Zevran's words were an angry hiss, though anger was not what he felt. "I told you I would be there to catch you, and I thought – like the fool I am – that you trusted me, but…"

"You _did_ catch me, and I _do_ trust you!" she insisted. "It was _me_ I couldn't trust! I regretted every word out of my mouth, everything I said just came out wrong and made things worse, and Anora was right, Marker damn her! It was better for me to just go."

"You mean easier for you," he spat, hating himself for not just laughing and letting it go like he would have with anyone else. "What about…the rest of us? Do you think so little of our concern for you?"

She caught the hesitation in his words, and her face softened with sadness. Silently, she rose and crossed the room to him, then knelt beside the bed and lay her face down near his to look him in the eyes. "I still loved him, Zevran. If I stayed, I would have used you, and just as you said, I would have regretted it." She lifted her fingers to lovingly trace his tattoos, and Zevran could not hide the raw emotion in his eyes as she smiled. "But I don't have to regret it now, or ever again. I'm sorry that I hurt you, but I'm not sorry for leaving."

Zevran seized her face in both his hands and dragged her into a slow, passionate kiss that stirred something so deep within him that it nearly frightened him. "Never leave again," he breathed against her mouth.

He felt her shake her head, saw the sincerity in her eyes. "Not without you."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **Couple things: 1) Relora is a rogue/bard/assassin...in case it matters to anyone. 2) I believe that Zevran's accent is intended to be Spanish, however, several of the words he speaks are Italian. So the little phrase I threw out here is Italian...because Italian won the coin toss. And looked cooler. No offense to Spanish. I don't think it really matters, but I just thought I'd mention it. 3) This story is done! And you are all amazing, wonderful readers. Thank you for the reviews, and I hope you enjoyed the story.  
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Part Eight**

Zevran savored the sound of Relora's appreciative groans as she sank into the steaming bath with him. Careful not to disturb the water, he pulled her back to rest against his chest and expelled a slow, relaxing breath. "I've never been more happy to be an elf than I am right now," she murmured, a smile in her voice as the assassin trailed faint kisses down the slope of her shoulder.

"And why is that, my dear?"

"Because…" she faded off for an incoherent moment as his bold fingers trailed over her skin beneath the water. "Because two humans would never fit into this bath together. Not without sloshing half the water on the floor."

Zevran chuckled but otherwise did not reply. He lifted his fingers to patiently pry loose the snarls in her hair, and she silently tilted her head to give him a better angle. It felt…good, natural, _right_. They both knew what was going on, but neither of them seemed willing to spoil this feeling with talk.

Their emotional, secondary reunion had been interrupted by the arrival of the tub and water in which they now lounged. As the servants scuttled to complete their task, sending Relora terrified and curious glances in the process, Zevran decided he had no idea how to ask her any of the hundreds of questions tumbling around in his head without shattering the fragile peace that he now felt. He was not even sure if he wanted to know anymore, though he could not really stop the questions for surfacing.

Was she really a Crow now? Did she join _willingly_? That seemed like a bizarre concept to him, as someone who had "joined" within the shackles of slavery. Why would she join them at all? Was she contracted to kill him? She could have easily done so many times since she appeared in his room, so he was mildly certain that this was not the case. But if not him, then someone else in Denerim?

Lora leaned over the side of the tub and searched for a washcloth and soap. "I paid Isabela to keep my identity secret," she said softly as she carefully arranged herself facing him, her eyes fixed on the cloth in her hands as she worked up a lather. "She agreed to get me out of Denerim and give me safe passage to her next port of call. Turned out, that was Antiva."

Zevran extracted the washrag from her and began a gentle, soapy exploration of her neck and shoulders. "And so you thought, 'Hey, here I am in Antiva! Why not become a Crow? It's the _fashionable_ thing to do'."

"Actually…yes, something like that," she said with a mildly sheepish smile. "You remember Master Ignacio?"

The blonde elf did not even bother to hide his distaste. "How could I forget such a lovely little man?"

Lora shook her head ruefully, but continued. "I never told you, but…he gave me contact information in case I ever found myself in need of employment. When I got there, I needed to do _something_ with my time. And my only other alternative plan was 'drink until all my coin is gone and pass out in a gutter somewhere until I die of exposure'."

Zervan smirked and wiped a few soapy bubbles onto the tip of her nose. "In that case, you made a wise choice."

"I am un contatta al di fuori, Zevran," she explained with an expectant expression.

His first thought was how very sexy she sounded speaking his language, with her little Ferelden accent leaking through certain words, but all of that was replaced by relief as he realized what she had said. "As an outside contact, you are not subject to the rules of the Crows," he murmured with a thoughtful nod. "Similar to your work for Ignacio before, yes? You are under no obligation to complete a contract."

"Exactly." She took the soap back from him and massaged her slippery fingers against his chest in a slow, kneading motion that forced a low groan from him.

"But, you are marked, my dear," he said after a relaxing moment, his fingers caressing her elbow where he now knew the tattoo to be.

"I needed to get them to trust me more," she shrugged, again not meeting his eyes. "It was a means to an end, and doesn't mean anything. Believe me, I made my intentions perfectly clear. I'm still a Grey Warden. I couldn't give them any promises even if I wanted to."

He caught her chin and forced her guarded gaze up to his. "What are you not telling me?"

She remained stubborn for several heartbeats, but being naked and in the bath with him seemed to make it difficult for her to ignore his question. With a defeated sigh, she admitted, "I…was hearing rumors. About you. And the contract on your life."

Zevran's hand dropped away from her face, and he nodded once in surprised reply. "And…so you…?" he prompted when she did not go on.

"I started digging." She lifted double handfuls of water to rinse the soap from his shoulders as she spoke. "I got in good with a few low-level assassins and made sure they felt comfortable around me and then squeezed them for information. Gently, of course."

"My devious little bard," he chuckled, ducking forward to steal a kiss from her smiling mouth. "Leliana would be most proud, I must say."

"Maybe." Her expression slowly faded to something sad and dark. Zevran twitched as her fingers caressed his side under the water, her palm gently pressing against the skin that had been broken by the assassin's blade. "I…thought I could stop them. Save you, like…like you saved me. But I was too late. I…"

Relora's expression was hard, but her pale eyes brimmed with bright tears. Shaking his head, Zevran drew her boldly into his lap, her legs curling around his waist and tightening against his back as their bodies slid into a firm, demanding embrace. He could feel her trembling, sense her fear that she had nearly lost him. He dug his fingers into her back and pressed his lips against the soft skin of her chest as she wound her arms around his neck. "But you _have_ saved me, amore," he whispered tightly, hearing a broken sob catch in her throat. "You came back to me…"

Both elves startled at a loud, insistent bark just outside the door, followed closely by muffled shouts and distant clanking armor. The couple stared as the door shook and rattled, then burst open in a flurry of fur and slobber and bounding puppy yips. Colt shoved himself bodily between them, delighted that he had tracked down his two favorite elves and trying to lick both of their faces at once. The hound sloshed half of the water onto the floor as he stuck his front feet and chest into the bath with them.

"Oh, so you taught the dog to pick locks now, have you?" Zervan chortled as they both tried in vain to push the hound from the tub and calm him.

"What can I say?" Lora laughed back, tilting her head aside to avoid a splash. "We both learned some new tricks in Antiva."

"Mmm…yes," the blonde assassin purred with a suggestive stare over the back of the enthusiastic Mabari, "so I noticed last night."

Colt abruptly backed out of the tub, but it became clear it was through no effort of theirs that he withdrew. Hackles raised, the hound snarled aggressively as two dumbfounded palace guardsmen came to a stumbling halt in Zevran's doorway.

After the initial surprise of "two naked elves in a bathtub," the more collected of the two men managed to stammer, "I-I-I…Master Arainai! Apologies, ser, but the hound was…was…"

"No worries, my dear gentlemen," Zevran soothed with a charming smile as Relora shook with laughter and buried her face against the crook of his neck, using him as a shield to protect some shred of modesty. "The dog was merely seeking his mistress, and see? Now he has found her. There is no cause for alarm."

"Y-yes, of course. It's…just that…"

A voice drifted to them from down the hallway, and the two guards in the doorway suddenly snapped to attention and stepped off to one side, though Zevran noticed with a smirk that the less-coherent of the guards was not too subtle about his wandering gaze.

"…don't know why no one will tell me anything! I just want to know where that dog came…" Alistair, followed closely by a third guardsmen, froze in the doorway, blinking rapidly, "…from."

"Your Highness, you have such exquisite timing," Zevran simpered, a bit startled when Relora lifted her face to stare coldly at the human king. He had half expected her to hide her identity for any number of reasons, but it seemed he was mistaken. Not that remaining inconspicuous would be a possibility for long with the Mabari at her side.

"King Theirin," the elven woman acknowledged him calmly. Zevran made absolutely no effort to hide a smug grin at the way Relora remained quite comfortably entangled with him.

"Wow," Alistair shook his head and muttered to himself. "Right here, _this_ is one of those moments I'll never unremember." Clearing his throat, he stood a little straighter and addressed the naked elves. "Welcome back, Relora. I would greet you properly, but you seem…busy."

Zevran very much wanted the pleasure of joining the incredibly awkward conversation, especially since the three guards looked as though they were going to bolt down the hall at any moment, but Relora was already answering. "Don't strain yourself, Your Majesty. We won't be staying long."

Alistair appeared to be stewing over the word "we," but after a short pause he said, "Ah. That's…good to know. I suppose. What brings you back to Denerim, then?"

"I'm working for the Crows now," she answered flatly, and that candid statement _did_ surprise Zevran – until she continued. "I'm just here to bring Zevran his next contract."

"Really?" The King frowned in confusion, and Zevran had to struggle to keep a straight face. "And…who exactly is his next contract for…from the group of assassins who just tried to have him killed twice and he claims he has no ties to anymore? If it's not too much to ask."

"Of course not. It's Anora."

Alistair stared at her stupidly before his eyes narrowed and he shook his head. "Ha, ha, that's very funny, Lora. She's kidding," he added quickly when one of the guards slid his hand over the hilt of his sword and glared at the elves. Zevran bit his tongue until he tasted blood to keep his amusement in check. "She's a funny, funny lady. Not that I'd stop you or anything…joking!" He held his arms up in a gesture of surrender at the scandalized look he received from his guards. "You know, I don't remember you being quite this _amusing _back when we were…"

"Running from darkspawn?" she offered when he hesitated, her voice clipped and annoyed. Zevran suddenly remembered why he had broken the King's nose and his amusement slipped away. "Hunting the archdemon? Raising an army?"

"Uh…yes. All of _that_."

Relora shrugged and curled herself in toward Zevran, her cheek resting on his shoulder as she watched Alistair from the corner of her eye. "Things change."

The King did not respond for a moment, then nodded stiffly. "Yes. They do. Well." He cleared his throat sharply. "Get back to your posts," he ordered the guards. He gave the elven couple an unreadable look before he nodded once and left, shutting the door firmly behind him.

The woman's body slumped in relief as soon as Alistair was gone, and Zevran could not stop himself from kissing away her tension. "You wicked, wicked woman," he whispered when she responded eagerly. "You _have _learned some things in Antiva. Such cruel taunts drip from your lovely lips."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she murmured sweetly, then did something with her hips that made the Antivan growl in pleasure. "I'm the picture of innocence."

Zevran chuckled and let his hands roam freely over her water-cooled skin. "This coming from the woman who just joked about assassinating the Queen of Ferelden."

Relora captured his face between her hands and smiled, one eyebrow arched coyly. "Who says I was joking?"


End file.
